


Indisposed

by Hope



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-10
Updated: 2002-05-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo has a little too much to drink during one of Bilbo's birthday dinners.  (set during FotR in the Shire, after Bilbo has left.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indisposed

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to be fluffy and amused. Just simple little hurt/comfort for a puking Frodo, but, as usual, has turned into a bit of an angst fest. Thank you to my beta reader, Sheba. Oh, and thanks to LB for the 'spiking' idea ;)

"I didn't think he'd be this bad! Honestly! I just wanted to cheer him up, he always gets so sad and, well . . . thoughtful on Bilbo's birthday."

"It's his birthday too, Master Pip, and beggin' your pardon, but I thought you'd have more *sense* than that, even at your age."

"Bilbo!! Tell me 'nother tale, unc Bilbo, somming bout the dwarves . . . those incorrishble dwarves!!" Frodo bucked with excitement, and Sam cursed slightly as he struggled to maintain his hold around Frodo's chest as he gripped him from behind, straining to keep the sagging body from falling.

"I didn't put _that_ much in. Besides, he didn't even notice the taste, so he must have been pretty far gone on his own ales. He--"

"Pip." Merry seemed to be the soberest of them all. "Sam's right, you _ought_ to have had more sense. You know Frodo can't hold his ale very well, let alone strong spirits such as you slipped him."

Pippin flushed and glowered, grumbling unintelligibly to the moonlit road.

"Well I think it's blerry well hilarious," mumbled Fatty, from somewhere out of the darkness behind them. "It's about time he loosened up."

"SAM!" Sam startled and hitched Frodo upright again. "SAM! Are the potatoes ready yet? You know I do love potatoes. And mushrooms. Mushhhhroooomssss . . ." He giggled, startlingly high pitched, and Pippin snorted, struggling to keep his expression sullen.

"Come on now, Mr Frodo," Sam said stoutly, ignoring the other hobbits' laughter and grunting slightly as he lifted Frodo up into his arms. "You've had a bit more than's good for you tonight. Time to go home to bed."

Frodo groaned, his head lolling back and hanging heavily over Sam's arm, his own arms flung wide and dangling down to Sam's knees. "Sam," he moaned as Sam started walking, the movement jostling his liquid limbs. "Are you taking me home to bed?" His voice was low, almost husky (_it's from the spirits_ Sam hastily assured himself), and Pippin laughed outright. Fatty hooted like an owl, still an unseen mass somewhere behind them in the darkness.

Sam cleared his throat hastily, blessing the darkness for hiding his beet-red face. "Bag End," he said, his voice rough. He cleared his throat again, tried to say it louder. "Bag End, Mr Frodo, I'm taking you back to Bag End."

Frodo sighed happily, lifting a hand sluggishly to twirl in a loose tail of Sam's shirt as they trooped further from the Inn, which roared and glared behind them, its light growing smaller and smaller the further away they got, until the cool silver calm of night surrounded them.

"Bag End? I like Bag End, it's not as big as Brandy Hall, is it? But its nicer. And uncle Bilbo is there." Frodo's voice had softened, subdued from its shout to a slur, now more like a child than an intoxicated adult. "Are we going to visit uncle Bilbo?" His eyes stared dreamily up into the cool night sky. "Will he give me any presents?"

"Bag End's yours now, Master, you know Mr Bilbo gave it to you."

Frodo's eyes closed, brow hinting at a frown, hand tightening on Sam's shirt. "Don't be silly, Papa," he said softly. "Bilbo wouldn't give me his house! Though I do like Sting, he said it glows, glows like your eyes, Mama . . . do you think he would give it to me?"

The hobbits walked on, four islands of silence on the moonlit road. The stars pierced the brisk night air sharply to stab at their eyes.

"Hush, now," murmured Sam, tightening his grip around Frodo's knees and shoulders. "We're almost there."

As they began to ascend the Hill, Frodo suddenly tensed, the stiffening of muscles pulling his head up and gritting his teeth. "No, Mama -" he gasped, and Sam halted in alarm. "Boats make me ill, Mama, boats make me . . ." Feeling the sudden convulsion of muscles in Frodo's chest, Sam quickly lowered him to the ground, almost dropping him in his haste (cursing his own slight intoxication), and making it just in time for Frodo's body to pitch forward as he retched, a violent movement constrained by Sam's arm banding around his chest and holding him firmly, a hand on his forehead holding back the dark, sweat-soaked curls and heavy head.

Frodo retched again and again, body trembling and convulsing as he vomited up Bilbo's birthday dinner mixed with far too much ale (and something stronger), then heaving dryly when there was nothing left. The night was filled with the sound of his harsh breathing and Sam's soft soothing. The other three hobbits stood still and silent, looking away. Finally Frodo was spent, and went limp in Sam's arms, shuddering with the aftershocks and the cool night air on his sweat-soaked skin.

"Mama . . ." he sobbed when he had enough breath. "Mama . . . I don't feel well . . . Mama . . ."

Gently Sam turned him around and wiped the slack mouth with his own sleeve before pulling the limp, trembling body into his arms and sinking to sit as Frodo's own kneeling legs gave up any attempt of support and folded lifelessly beneath him.

"Mama . . ."

"I - I'm sorry," Pip whispered into the gasping silence. "It - It was a stupid thing to do. I didn't know that . . . That this would happen, I'm sorry . . ."

"C'mon Pip," murmured Merry, slipping an arm around his younger cousin's shoulders. "Let's go ahead to Bag End and light the fires." He glanced at Sam, who nodded briefly, then started back up the hill. Fatty followed them, casting a somewhat woeful look in Frodo and Sam's direction before struggling on.

"Sam . . ." Frodo mumbled loosely. Sam tightened his arms, rocking slightly enough to comfort and not disturb the other's stomach again.

"Shh me dear, we'll soon get you home to a nice warm bed and all will be better in the morning."

With a final groan, Frodo's head came to rest heavily onto Sam's shoulder, face pressed into his shirt. Sam breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that drunken dreams, as he knew from experience, were often not remembered at sunrise. Gathering up the limp body as if it were a child's, he rose and continued up towards Bag End.


End file.
